


Sharks in the Swimming Pool

by grimproper, redstringraven (sirimiri)



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop & Tattoo Parlor, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Awkward Flirting, F/M, Fluff, Found Family, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Mutual Pining, Slice of Life, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2020-02-27 17:37:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18743833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grimproper/pseuds/grimproper, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirimiri/pseuds/redstringraven
Summary: it's been 65 days, yet the hours feel infinite. he still sees the faint orange glow on the window at night. feels the heat against his cheek when he lies on his side for too long. smoke fills his lungs as he sleeps, and he often wakes in the dead of night, coughing, choking. sobbing. it was kind of his neighbors to give him shelter, food, a roof over his head. but this will never be home.a decision, impulsive as the wind, brings him to a new city just off the coast. there, he meets an easy-going firbolg who lives in a nursery, a not-so-stray cat who frequents the greenhouse, and a pair of eccentric tieflings running the tattoo parlor across the street. it's all a little overwhelming, and he still catches glimpses of his shadows lurking where they have no business being. but maybe. just maybe. ...there's more to a 'home' than where you choose to hang your hat.





	Sharks in the Swimming Pool

**Author's Note:**

> hello! red, here. just a quick (but important!) thing:
> 
> while i'm the one _writing_ this fic, i wanted to make sure y'all knew that my lovely friend,[ JM (greenesweaters)](https://greenesweaters.tumblr.com/), has contributed and elaborated on several of the ideas, concepts and scenarios that make this silly au so important to us. she won't be writing along with me (she IS beta-reading and helping me expand on ideas throughout the writing process), but it'd be a crime not to tell y'all how hecking brilliant and fun she is and make sure you knew i'm not the only one driving this happy train and picking the roads it takes. so thank you, JM, for being your bad self and always being an undescribingly huge source of encouragement and inspiration to me. i love you so, so much. 
> 
> thank you so much for clicking in and reading! hope you enjoy! (✿◠‿◠)ﾉ彡┻━┻

* * *

**[** _2:26 AM . 65 days after_ **]**

* * *

Bren can’t sleep.

He doesn’t remember getting into bed, either. It’s better that way most nights. If he can’t remember getting into bed, he can’t remember where he is. Can’t remember that it isn’t home. And that it will never be home.

The Roths had opened their house to him. At least until he found his feet again. They’d attempted polite conversation off and on throughout the weeks, often trying to lure him to the table with meals or empty words. He’d tune them out for the most part, and they’d caught on. It must have brought them some relief. Because, for the past several nights, he’d heard them whisper from their bedroom. Questions about him. About how much longer they could house this ghost… about how much longer he might haunt them.

He understood. He didn’t want to be here, either.

Slowly, Bren sits up in bed. The covers beneath him remained tucked in the spaces between the mattress and the wall. The pillows still stood tall in their stack. All elements of the bedding had gone undisturbed, save for an old Pooh Bear stuffed animal that had sat on the window sill. Silly as it felt to admit, even to himself, he’d developed a habit of idly moving the bear’s arms, tucking it under one arm, or otherwise fidgeting with its ears. This room had been their daughter’s, once. He’d been small when she’d left for college, and he had foggy memories of evenings she babysat. Nights of cheap pizza, root beer, and movies she insisted were required viewing. He remembered his mother’s voice… muffled from the other side of his bedroom door, insisting she accepts more payment for her time at the end of the night. But Adalie never accepted. _You already paid for the pizza,_ she’d say. _And Bren’s a good kid. The day he refuses to marathon Lord of the Rings with me is the day I miiight let you pay for more than dinner._

His mother would laugh.

Bren’s throat tightened, and his hands grip the poor bear’s sides. The window is to his left. A glance through it would lead his eyes down the street, where the corner house would be just visible at the end of the road. But he doesn’t take that glance. Instead, he swings his legs off the bed. He rests the stuffed bear back against the pillows, staring back into its small button eyes. Then, he exits the room.

The Roths would sleep until 8 at the latest. Neither of them slept lightly. So they wouldn’t hear him as he moved down the hall, or as he fished the keys to the old family car from the bowl on the kitchen counter. They wouldn’t wake as he slid out the front door and down the porch steps or even as the blue jetta sputtered to life. By the time they noticed that his car was gone. That he was gone. He’d be far away from here. Far away from this neighborhood. This town. This place.

He didn’t know where he was going, and he didn’t care. He just drove. So that even if he wanted to return… he wouldn’t know the way.

* * *

**[** _9:19AM . 66 days after_ **]**

* * *

Bren cursed under his breath. He should have seen complications on the horizon. Ever since he’d started tapping into the magical energies he’d read so much about, anything electronic in his reach had developed a habit of malfunctioning. There’d been a night where he’d somehow managed to cause a power outage in their home after successfully completing a small ritual spell. He’d been so excited that his will must have boosted the magic, and every lightbulb in the room erupted before the whole house went black. The embarrassment and fear had gripped him in an instant, but… his parents had done nothing but praise him. Tell him how brilliant he was. How proud… they were…

Bren squeezes his eyes shut, and he digs his forehead into the steering wheel. The car decided to breakdown in the middle of nowhere. Other vehicles would pass without so much as slowing down; not that he blamed them. Cars broke down all the time, and strangers out on the road weren’t people to be trusted.

“Please,” he begs, barely above a whisper. “I must go… I need to go… please.”

He pushes all his will forward, as though it were possible to transfer it through his skull, into the steering wheel, and force the car to wake back up. His hand shakes as he turns the key again. The engine coughs, and it chokes.

“Fuck… _shit,_ you stupid. Stupid car,” he says. His fist raises and drops, hitting the dashboard in a half-hearted display of frustration. “Stupid… so _fucking_ stupid, why? Why did you do it? ...why did you _fucking_ \--”

The car putters twice, then roars to life.

Bren sits up again, blinking the water from his eyes and sniffing. He scrubs the salt off his face and adjusts his hands on the wheel. Another two or three minutes are taken to collect himself, steady his breathing, and force everything--everything back into the rearview mirror.

He pushes down on the gas pedal and rejoins the other cars.

* * *

**[** _11:49PM . 66 days after_ **]**

* * *

The car had rolled to a stop again maybe ten minutes ago, albeit this time it hadn’t been due to his touch. An unfortunate consequence to impulsively running away? Leaving behind any means of money and having no way to purchase gas.

It’d taken him five of those ten minutes to decide to abandon the old car. He left the keys in the seat.

* * *

**[** _9:03AM . 67 days after_ **]**

* * *

Travel exhausted him enough to take shelter under a small bridge just outside the limits to the next city. He’d imagined sleeping outdoors with nothing more than an old coat to keep him warm would have been more miserable, but when you’d gone several nights off minimal sleep--if any at all--then walked for over three hours, any place is good enough, he supposed.

This did wake him to the fact that food and water would soon become an issue. ...he’d figure it out later.

* * *

**[** _8:34PM . 68 days after_ **]**

* * *

Someone’s parked their bicycle outside a deli without a chain or lock. Hm. Fancy that.

One man’s mistake is another man’s opportunity.

* * *

**[** _4:25PM . 74 days after_ **]**

* * *

Last words are bullshit.

It’s raining, hard, and the wind tears at his face as he pedals down the open road. Thick and wet as the passing air is, he can still smell the rich, salty sea breeze peppering his nose. Bren sneezes, pulls a hand off the bars to smear his arm under his nose.

Last words are bullshit. In movies, books, games, the characters often had some grand statement to make with their final breaths. But it’s not like that. ...it’s not like that at all.

The last thing his father had said to him had been so simple. _Alright, well. Remember to clean up when you’re finished._ Nothing special. Nothing grand or important. Just a request to tidy the dining room, to put his dishes in the wash before he went out. He can’t remember if he put the book back… not that it matters, now.

And his mother. She’d chased him down as he reached the door handle and wrestled his coat over his arms with the gentle-firmness only she could manage. She’d patted his shoulders, pressed a kiss to his head. _Back by dinner?_

He’d nodded and left.

Last words are bullshit. But it’s not the dead’s last words that haunt him most. He realizes how small and meaningless the last things he said to them were. That yes, he would clean up. That, yes, he would be back in time for supper. Why hadn’t he said more?

When was the last time he’d told them he loved them?

* * *

**[** _6:28AM . 77 days after_ **]**

* * *

Maybe it’d been the exhaustion that made everything so much darker. Or it could have been that it was still overcast from the night before. Whatever the reason, he’d failed to see the massive crack in the sidewalk, and his bike bucked before swerving into a small fence and tossing him over and onto the other side.

It took him a few seconds to realize he’d landed in water. Below the surface, actually. And he shoved onto his elbows, gasping and blinking rapidly as droplets ran down his face and into his eyes. Several small somethings moved around him, and he sat up in full just as the last of the tiny pond frogs sprang out of the water and disappeared into the surrounding foliage. Bren coughs up a bit of the water and spits it off to the side. He curses under his breath, scrubbing at his face and eyes with the cuffs of his sleeves. The effort proves pointless. He did just flop right into a pond, after all.

He drops his arms back to his sides, sighing as they splash droplets against his neck and jaw. He lets himself wallow a bit... Wonders if he should be grateful or disappointed that the pond had cushioned his fall…

A flash of light catches his eye, and he turns his head. His heart freezes in his chest.

There’s a pair of bright, copper eyes staring back at him from the leaves. They don’t blink.

Bren finds it hard to breathe, and there’s a long moment where he wonders if he hadn’t been as ‘lucky’ during the fall as he’d thought. But, with the rising sun on the horizon and his eyes adjusting to the dim light, he sees what the eyes belong to. Or, rather… who. A cat. An elegantly thin, short-haired cat. Bren clears his throat, closing his fingers in the mud beneath them. “Oh… h… hello, there.”

The cat’s tail swishes, and it licks the corner of its mouth.

“I’m… --I’m sorry, is… ahh… --is this your pond, then?”

Perhaps it’s silly to talk to a cat. But it’s a nice change of pace after talking to himself for the past several days.

“I’ll be on my way. --ah.” Bren winced, locking up for a long moment before slowly raising his foot. A deep red glistened around his ankle and the tear of his pants. Some of the red is on a shattered clay pot, too, which has spilled dirt and the remains of crushed flowers into the water. He grits his teeth, huffing a breath as he let his leg drop back over the edge of the pond. “...shit.”

The cat mewed, and it crept out of the brush. It padded the short distance to the pond’s edge and hopped onto his knee. The weight is warm and oddly comforting. His new cut aches a little less.

“You’re a friendly one,” Bren mutters. He extends a hand, and the cat gives it a few sniffs. Satisfied, it leans away and swivels its ears toward him. The sun’s peaking further over the horizon, now, and the cat’s golden brown coat glows in the morning sun like a fine whiskey. Bren can’t help but smile, daring to give the feline a light scratch beneath its chin. The cat allows the gesture with a slow blink.

Suddenly, it turns its head, staring widely past Bren’s shoulder. Bren turns to look after it, and his breath stops short.

From behind the pond’s gentle waterfall, towering over several elegantly potted ferns and large-leafed plants looms a massive firbolg. At first, Bren thinks their fur may be a pale yellow, but he’s quick to realize that the sun provides the illusion of yellow. The firbolg is white, well-groomed, and had taken the time to braid their long pink hair back in a way that looked effortless but clearly wasn’t. They blinked down at Bren once and flicked an ear, brows slowly knitting at the top of their large, flat nose.

“Huh,” they grunted. “...that’s weird.”

Bren scrambled. He stumbled over his own limbs as he tried to get to his feet, nearly tripping over the cat, as well, when it sprang off his knee and darted back to the brush. He windmilled his arms as he waded out of the pond and again to dry land, hands raised and eyes locked on his own two feet. “--I-I-I’m sorry--I’m so, aaaaah, sorry,” he stuttered, “Iiii--I fell. Off my bike. And, ah, I, ahhh--didn’t… I should go. I’m so sorry. --Did--Did I break anything?”

A long pause. Bren winces to himself, already knowing the answer. Surely the firbolg will alert the local authorities to his trespassing. He has nothing to pay for damages. It’s a strange, new panic; one he hadn’t felt previously even as he’d stolen food, the bike, and other small resources throughout the past few weeks. This time he’d been caught. This time, it was too late for clever tricks. He closes his eyes and waits for the verbal blow.

“Nah, nah,” comes the firbolg’s… gentle? voice. “Nothing’s broken. Nothing important. These pots, these plants, they can all be replaced in due time. Not you, though. ..speaking of, you’ve sustained an injury, there.”

Bren blinks his eyes open. He stares through the still bleeding cut above his ankle before lifting his head and staring, in utter shock, at the firbolg across from him. “... wh…?”

“Come on.” The firbolg gestures to him, smiling easily and starting to move through the plants. “I was about to put some tea on, anyway. It’s the perfect morning for a nice jasmine.”

It takes him seconds to feel his leg muscles again, let alone command them to move, but Bren finds mind space enough to shamble after the firbolg. He takes the time between conversation to look around and figure out where he is. There are plants everywhere. Some are organized in groups on the ground, others on tables, flowers organized by species and color. There are clay pots of all shapes, sizes, and design, some more distinct and personalized than others. Windchimes twinkle and ring, their small voices soft on the breeze. He’s in a nursery, he realizes. A simple nursery with a humble building at the front and a greenhouse in the back. And this firbolg must be the owner. Which means things could either be better or much worse.

There’s a bit of movement from the corner of his eyes, and he glances down to see the cat trotting at his side. He swallows, giving the feline a slight nod. _Thank you for coming along, friend._

Bren follows the firbolg into a small ‘office’ sort of room in the back of the building. He’s not so sure it’s much of an office, though, as the clutter and disorganization is a complete reversal of the carefully curated greens outside. But there is an electric kettle on the desk, and the firbolg has already produced a second teacup from a drawer beneath.

“Please, sit!” They say, gesturing to the chair across. Bren glances at it, realizing that even if he wanted to take the invitation, he couldn’t. Two large boxes and a stack of paper had already claimed the seat. He turns back and opens his mouth, but is silenced as a cup of hot water and a metal tong is placed between his hands. “Stir it just a bit every minute or so. I’ll tell you when to remove it.”

Bren’s mouth opened and closed mutely. He cleared his throat and found his voice again. “I… I…--”

“Oh! Oh, how rude of me. Please, forgive my manners.” The firbolg smiles, extending a large hand. “I’m Caduceus. Caduceus Clay. A pleasure to meet you. Don’t think I’ve seen you around before.”

“Ah.” Bren takes the firbolg’s hand, grunting at the quick shake before quickly pulling his hand back to him. “Ahh--yes. Yes, um. Pleasure to make your acquaintance, as well, Mr. Clay. Yes. Iiiii, ah, apologize, again, for having crashed into your pond.” He cleared his throat, drumming his fingers along the edges of the teacup. “I should have, aaaah, paid more mind to where I was going, and I swear to you it will not happen again.”

Caduceus smiled at him. The gesture wasn’t forced, nor did it feel even the slightest bit fake. It came across entirely genuine. “Please, please, don’t worry about it. Things break, things mend. It’s just the way of life.” He pauses to take a slow sip from his own cup as Bren stares on, jaw a little slack. “May I ask where you’re on your way to? --I hope I’m not delaying your commute.”

“N-no! No, I… I wasn’t, ah. Going much of anywhere,” Bren says, his voice trailing away to a murmur. Caduceus tilts his head. Bren swallows, forcing himself to look up. “--please. Let… let me pay your kindness forward. What… can I do? Can… --I could help. Here. O-or run … errands, I could…” He rolls his lips together, trying to wet them again. “I-I don’t have any money, but… I have time… I-I have all the time you would require of me.”

He may have said too much.

Caduceus blinks, his gentle gaze softening further as his eyes squinted just the slightest, and he raised his chin. Bren bit down, hard, on the inside of his cheek. Hoping. Praying to any deity who’d listen. That Caduceus wouldn’t ask questions. That, maybe, he’d even deny the offer. And Bren could be on his way to whatever nowhere he was going to. This wouldn’t be the case.

Caduceus nodded. He sighed, but the smile on his lips remained. “If you insist,” he said. “I do appreciate the gesture. Truly. Let’s see how you do today, then. Finish the tea, and I’ll fix your foot right up, then we’ll find something for you to do. Shouldn’t be too difficult; there’s always something to do, here, in The Thicket.” His smile broadened. “I didn’t think it would be so easy to get rid of you. Fluff’s taken a liking to you, after all. He’s the ‘real’ boss around here.”

Bren glanced to the cat who’d found his way to the top of the boxes and stack of papers, somehow without so much as tilting the whole thing. The cat stopped licking one of his front paws, and he looked up to blink in Caduceus’s direction. The firbolg chuckled and shook his head. “Anyway. Give me a moment to find the first aid kit… it’s around here, somewhere. --Please, make yourself at home--... Misterr…?”

Something caught in his throat. Bren inhaled, slow, through his nose, and his thumb rapped against the curve of the teacup. He held the breath. Then, he released it, nodding and forcing a ghost of a smile to his lips.

“Caleb,” he said. “Caleb Widogast.”


End file.
